Summer bends into July

Scenes of home as July ascends:
            Overhead grasses reach, bend, and droop.
            Fading daisies wilt and brown.
            Powdery-green scum skims and clouds the pond.
            Bullfrog voices are pitched ever lower, and bird song calms.
            The assiduous care of baby everythings loses urgency. Offspring fate is largely sealed; either they have fallen prey to something, or they’ve grown to strength and near-independence.
            Jonathan made me a walking stick with a narrow, inset, oval-shaped flaw at the top that looks like the eye of Sauron. He polished it to a smooth finish. I walk the paths like a sorceress, restraining the power that hums through her mighty staff.
            The dogs were unimpressed.
           
My 60th year in 60,000 words
Day 311: 110 words, TOTAL = 50,860; 9,140 remaining